


Slayed.  1/1.

by punky_96



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 13:09:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14521251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punky_96/pseuds/punky_96
Summary: Re-post from LJ.Prompted by glacial_pace.  Miranda/Jacqueline—clash of the tigers! (smut is not optional…  it’s a mandatory requirement!)  (Yes, she said that exactly.)





	Slayed.  1/1.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The use of ‘called in’? I don’t know if that would be confusing. We call in sick to work or we joke about calling in in-love or calling in dead or whatever instead of sick as the reason for not coming to work. Is that a California thing?

**_Slayed_**  
**_  
1.  Where?_**  
  
“Where is Miranda?”  
  
Three words no one ever thought they would say or hear.  Three words that were about as scary as the doctor saying, ‘I have bad news.’  Nigel felt a shiver in his bones that would rival a 10.0 on the Richter scale of earthquakes—or so he imagined.  
  
Miranda Priestly had gone off the grid.  
  
Stephen Tomlinson called in divorced.  Nigel would like to call him in dead.  
  
Andrea Sachs drowned her phone in a fountain.  Nigel considered doing the same to her.  
  
The war was won, but at what cost?  Nigel had taken a hit for the team.  He would make peace with that later.  In the present he had a pressing issue and no First Assistant to skewer or rake over coals for information.  No one else on staff knew where she was.  Her driver said that she had inexplicably told him she would not need his services that morning.  The hotel said that she had checked out.  Emily passed out and Nigel hung up.  The rest of the Runway crew in Paris was a total wash out and Nigel found himself thinking the exact same horrible things about their incompetence that previous to now had always made him cringe and wonder if her comments were exactly necessary.  He found much to his chagrin that they were not only true, but necessary.  It was apparently not their turn to watch her, so not one single person had noticed whether Miranda Priestly was there this morning in order to flambé or fricassee them.  Nigel for his part could plead the excuse of a meeting with Irv Ravitz regarding a plan that apparently Miranda had hatched up in order to please both of them—which it did, very much so.  He was to meet the crew at the airport leaving Irv to his extra-curricular Paris activities out of the spotlight of fashion week and Miranda Priestly’s press retinue.  
  
The plane would arrive shortly and Nigel had some decisions to make.  
  
Leave and do their jobs as Miranda would no doubt demand of them or wait and try to find Miranda?  If she was found and the entire Runway team was sitting about accomplishing nothing in the Charles DeGaulle Airport, then heads would most certainly roll.  Yet, it was a very uneasy decision to make—to leave Miranda behind with unknown whereabouts and safety alone in Paris.  
  
**_2.  Puzzle Solved_**  
  
Sitting on the plane, Nigel kept replaying scenes and bits of conversation in his mind.  The disastrous James Holt Celebration where he had his hopes and dreams snatched out from under him like a magician with a tablecloth—that seemed to be the starting point of all this madness.  Although he knew deep inside that whatever forces were at work had been beginning for some time.  
  
Jacqueline Follet was like water sinking into a boulder waiting for the frost and then expanding to create a crack that would rip the boulder apart.  Nigel wasn’t sure if she meant to be a force of destruction, or if it just came naturally.  It had not always been so.  Twenty years ago, they had all been starting out on some level.  Gone was the fresh newness of youth, but the sharp edges of professional warfare had not been sharpened yet either.  It had been during this time that the three of them had circled in the waters of fashion waiting for first blood.  Jacqueline drew first blood and thought herself the victor over Miranda.  A broken heart in place of her happily beating one, but Miranda was not defeated.  Her heart was a miraculous thing, and large as the cosmos.  The part that Jacqueline had used against her was simply cut out and the stone of it used against her.  Jacqueline was left in banishment to stagnate at French Runway, her potential perhaps run out, or perhaps limited by her careless mistake with Miranda.  
  
Always watching with hawk eyes Jacqueline observed the one she had loved and left.  Often it was from afar, but always it was with the vigilance of a lover turned enemy.  Jacqueline had waited long enough and made her move.  A plot behind the devil’s back to over throw the crown.  Irv was a likely accomplice although he also under estimated the wrath of a woman scorned.  
  
After the Celebration, Andrea Sachs had a heart to heart with Miranda and found her heart hurting.  She did not have the experience or the age to withstand the complex games that were at work around her.  In truth Nigel barely had the strength to withstand it, even though he had been a player for many years.  This time the wound was personal, too close to the heart.  Andrea Sachs left and though he had not focused properly on it at the time—Jacqueline Follet disappeared as well.  
  
The iron was hot and while the war may have been over, a wound could still be struck to remember her by.  It took Nigel half a plane ride home to make the connections, but when he did, he wasn’t sure whether half the world away would be far enough.  
  
Jacqueline Follet saw many details and was as crafty as Miranda.  A sweet little field mouse, like Andrea, scampering away from Miranda would not escape those hawk eyes of hers.  Miranda was quicker than Nigel at putting these pieces together—it was no wonder that she was the editor and that she had gone missing this morning.  
  
By the time the plane touched down the battlefield would be bloody and the victor would be able to claim the spoils of their prize.  Nigel shook his head.  He hoped the girl, Andrea Sachs, would be able to escape unscathed from between the battle of the two Titans.  
  
**_3.  The Final Hurt_**  
  
Before the fall, before the rise, before the boom—life was perfect.  Jacqueline Follet worshiped the porcelain skin of Miranda Priestly by moon and shone brighter than the sun in the day of her working life.  Miranda’s warm lips against her skin seared the knowledge of love into a hidden layer of her skin.  Her fingers filled Jacqueline like no other person before, nor would they ever again.  Without her knowledge or permission, Miranda had invaded her soul.  Her muscles remembered her and would accept no substitute.  In those years the waters were full of dangers, some unseen and some clearly obvious.  Jacqueline knew that she would step on her lover to get ahead, and she had no reason to believe that Miranda would not do the same.  The pain it caused her was great, but the risk of humiliation and professional failure spurred her on.  
  
When her chance to move up in French Runway presented itself in the form of a dagger in Miranda’s back, she took it and forced her eyes closed to the consequences of her actions.  She refused to see the hurt in her eyes or her hand reaching out to ask why.  Jacqueline could not bear the burn that coursed through her veins as she realized too, too, too late that Miranda was cut from a different cloth than she was.  It hurt her to know the damage that she created, and the separation that she had not needed to cause.  
  
The final hurt was delivered as Miranda transformed before her eyes.  
  
Miranda did not step on Jacqueline. Her methods were much more efficient.  She stepped OVER her—all the way to American Runway and Editor in Chief.  Nigel went with her knowing that she was the bright star and Jacqueline had already played her big card in the game.  It was funny really how time swayed and flowed and curves abandoned were long forgotten.  
  
The world forgot that Miranda was a woman with a heart—in time they believed she was the Dragon Princess of Castle Runway.  Her ruthless decisions, lack of mercy, and unrelenting quest for perfection erased any memory those who had been around long enough had of the girl who became Queen.  At night alone in her room, Jacqueline remembered with a tear and a shudder.  Her hand traced the lines of her own body the way that Miranda once had.  Her muscles clenched as her brain wandered over those gentle nights and endless days.  An open window would allow the breeze to whisper lightly against her skin the way Miranda’s hair used to slide across her body.  Her own fingers tried to please her the way Miranda had stretched her until she wept with passion.  It was Miranda’s name that fell from her lips in the dark of the moonless night, even after all the years.  Her muscles knew just as her heart did—Miranda was not coming back and there was no way to right those wrongs.  
  
If something can break you—it is best to destroy it.  Jacqueline had learned to live by this code.  
  
**_4\. Pawn_**  
  
The girl was beautiful.  She was clearly out of her league, but there was no denying that she was beautiful.  I had been watching the American Runway table for Nigel, but looking at the brunette became the highlight of the day.  I was destined to keep rising up out of the ashes like a phoenix.  I risked and I lived on the edges.  The plot to ouster Miranda from American Runway was a gamble.  She was unpredictable and shrewd, so there was never a sure way to attack her directly.  I had let my hopes rise on this one.  I admit it.  I had started to believe that the end was near, and that I was finally victorious.  Instead, I found destruction and the glimmer of hope in the crestfallen face of a beautiful girl—Miranda’s girl to be exact.  I had no way of knowing her relationship with Miranda.  Surely, she did not mix business with pleasure, but it wasn’t as if Stephen was the one to really warm her heart.  Beautiful, naïve, and obviously promoted before she was ready—this girl had to hold some of Miranda’s interest.  
  
She was worth pursuing.  
  
I saw her warn Miranda and get the brush off.  She had been so determined, and her eyes were bright with a passion that she likely didn’t understand.  
  
My car was behind theirs on the way to the Valentino show immediately following.  I saw Miranda face the crowd—a smile for the sharks as she looked around, simultaneously fending them off and searching for the girl who had gone the other direction.  There was the glimmer of something in Miranda’s demeanor and then it was gone.  Miranda turned into the front door, the girl flipped her phone in a delicious arc of defiance to the fountain, and I told my driver to circle the block.  I got out on the other side and caught her in silent reflection on the other side of the fountain.  
  
Her face was stained with tears.  The same tears I had cried for the last twenty years.  She loved the dragon and left her.  She had not stepped on her for her advantage, instead she had definitely acted in defense of the woman, perhaps to her detriment.  In a second, I recognized her and in that second, I knew I could not use her the way I had intended, not even to destroy Miranda.  
  
“What have you done, ma chere?”  
  
“Saved myself.”  
  
“From what?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  She cracked then and I took her in my arms.  My body sung with delight.  She smelled like Miranda, she was close to Miranda, and she shared a love of Miranda.   I breathed deep taking a moment of consolation from this fact.  I would help her navigate the waters ahead of her, and I would not throw her to the Dragon until she was ready to face her.  
  
I took her to get her stuff and was impressed with her composure and her efficiency.  Even without her phone, she called numbers from memory and set up her return travel.  After my encouragement, she had taken three days to recover.  It would be soon enough for her to face the fire and by then I would hopefully be able to tell her the best way to proceed.  Miranda’s wrath knew no patience.  If the girl was to be black listed or tossed out of the kingdom, then the decree would be known soon enough.  I set her up at a friend’s house, so that I would not further tempt myself.  The girl was simply too delicious, too irresistible, and my path of destruction was far too natural for me—to not consider the deflowering of Miranda’s precious pet.  Even if there was nothing between them, she would not take kindly to the assault in her territory.  
**_  
5\. Devil to Demon_**  
  
A fitful sleep was broken by thunder at my door.  I had dreamed of her tonight.  I had dreamed of both of them.  It was a strange and haunting dream.  Miranda had come to me to offer solace.  She had never meant to step on me even after all these years.  She had only acted to protect herself.  I apologized.  The words locked away for twenty years fell from my mouth and betrayed my cracked heart to her.  I was engulfed by her and overwhelmed with a passion that would immolate me.  I was happy to die as her fingers found my wet desire and I arched into her.  In the next moment, I was on my knees lapping at the love I had let linger between her legs and she tugged my hair like she used to.  A name was chanted then and I was lost, like Alice down the rabbit hole.  I landed with a thud as the chanting became louder and I realized it was not my name, but that of the girl—Andrea.  With breathless passion it was whispered, chanted, and then screamed as I thrust against Miranda and salty tears mixed with the sweet of her nectar on my face.  Only then, I was held and caressed and opened my eyes to reveal new doe-eyed browns looking back at me.  She caressed my hair and cooed until I stopped shaking, until I recovered and looked into her eyes.  Then she asked quietly, “Why?”  
  
I had no time to puzzle out the morphing waves of my dream as the thunder crashed upon my door.  I did not turn on a light as I swept across the house on uncertain tiptoes.  Who would call so late and with such ferocity?  It was no thunder, no wind, no banshee of the night—it was Miranda Priestly looking for all the world like the hounds of hell had been chasing her ragged.  I opened the door like I was entering another dimension.  For the first time in twenty years, we were truly face to face.  There was no buffer of a party, no middle men like Irv, no images to hide behind, and nowhere to run.  She was alone—a devil come to face her demon.  A silver car was in the driveway and I briefly wondered if it was stolen.  
  
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.  Perhaps the worse hell was not the scorn, but the love of a woman that still simmered below the surface once all the trappings and defenses were torn away.  Standing facing each other like boxers waiting for the bell, I saw Miranda, the woman, for the first time in twenty years.  I had never dared to really look on her again.  I glanced.  I looked for evidence of pain.  I looked for proof that I had made an impact.  I did not look closely though.  I did not know what I would see and I was afraid that my love would show like a beacon breaking through all the bravado and machinations that were the dance of enemies I had requested for us.  She was hardened to be sure, but the old desire was there, the old passion, the old hurt.  My knees buckled and to cover I stepped back holding onto the door with a white-knuckle grip to let her in.  
  
The Dragon was in my house.  She looked this way and that as if trying to find the danger—as if tasting the air like the predator that she had become.  She did not speak but she flittered from room to room in some kind of search.  General living areas first and then down the hall to the guest rooms, which she opened and examined before moving on in her silent quest.  I could not tell if her tension mounted or if it was only my own levels that spiraled out of control.  She was approaching my bedroom as I trailed silently after her.  It was only with a gasp that I realized she was in my room and had been looking for the girl.  To what end or purpose, I still did not know, but there she was haughty and powerful in my bedroom.  
  
“Where is she?”  Miranda hissed through her teeth.  
  
I entered the room to stand next to the bed she had just been overlooking.  “Hmm.  Who?”  She wasn’t going to give an inch, and neither was I.  
  
“Andrea.”  Miranda glared at me and stepped so that we were nose to nose.  
  
“Your assistant?  Lovely girl.”  
  
“Don’t bring her into this war, Jacqueline.”  
  
“Like you didn’t bring Nigel into this war, Miranda?”  
  
“You forced my hand.  I never stepped on you when I could have.  Nigel will have something appropriate and soon.  The job was perfect for you and I knew you were unhappy at French Runway or you wouldn’t have joined Irv.”  
  
Her tone was cool, but not icy.  She said the job was perfect for me.  She was right.  I did force her hand.  
  
As if possessed by the demon that I am, my arms raised gripping her face and pulling it to me.  I kissed her hard and slid my tongue into her mouth as she began to protest.  I moved a hand behind her neck to the base of her skull and held her to me as the other hand trailed down her back and rested on her hip.  It was almost gentle.  She kissed back for a few long seconds and I whimpered.  Twenty years of walls drawn up, defenses on high alert, and passions kept in check—all lost in one kiss.  Her hands came up to rest on my shoulders and then she pushed me hard away from her.  I landed on the bed and the ferocious look in her eyes caused me to scramble backward on the bed.  I felt her on all fours over me like the talons of a dragon at my shoulders and against the sides of my hips.  In wonder, I looked up to her anticipating what kind of moment we had found ourselves in.  
  
Her eyes were wild and her breath was ragged as she looked down at me.  “You want this?”  She hissed and I felt her hot breath against my face.  I wished she was my sun and not my moon.  How many years had I wasted in darkness without her?  I licked my lips and nodded ‘yes.’  She lowered her face to mine and I thought she would kiss me again, but instead she lowered her mouth to the front of my throat and sucked there like a vampire taking the lifeblood of a victim.  She finished with a nip of her teeth at the same spot before settling into position.  I would have given her anything at that moment.  
  
Her legs between mine spread me open and I wished that I had not slept in a gown this evening because I want no barriers between us.  I want the walls to come down even if she was to hit them with a sledgehammer.  My defeat today was once again, not her stepping on me.  Her words for Nigel showed that it was not stepping on him either.  I do not understand the enigma floating over me.  I stabbed her in the back to get French Runway, an offense she would not forget nor likely forgive, and yet she has made sure in all these years to not step on me or sabotage me in any way.  I can smell her perfume, see her before me, and my muscles are dancing in delight at her memory.  My sex is dripping for her as she holds me open and slides my nightgown up my legs.  
  
Her teeth pinched and grabbed my nipples hard through the thin cotton of my gown.  This wildness was nothing like what we had so long ago.  This was animalistic and out of control with a heady undercurrent of tension, emotion and history.  My panties were pulled down just far enough for her to stretch me with a sudden thrust.  I arched and cried out in pain and pleasure.  I have not truly been filled in the time that I have been apart from Miranda.  Release has not come even as my sex clenched for another.  I was not satisfied.  My nipples hurt and I winced as her free hand abused them in alternating fashion.  I rode the waves of frantic desire as she thrust fast and hard.  Two minutes into it I came hard and screamed her name.  
  
Miranda sat back on her heels and licked her fingers clean as I recovered and watched her through lidded eyes.  She was still fully clothed and every inch the goddess that my brain remembered.  I would be sore for days and the mark she branded me with would be like a collar around my neck professing to the world that I love Miranda Priestly.  She regarded me in a calmer fashion than before.  
  
“I love you.  I’ve always loved you.”  I breathed out.  
  
A smirk played on her lips and I knew that I was just given a helping of my own creation.  “No.  Jacqueline.  I am not here for that.  I loved you.  I love you still.  I did not step on you in anyway.”  She paused and her eyes shone with unshed tears.  She gave a subtle toss of her head and hair before she began again.  “You became something that I could not understand and you forced me to become something I did not want to become.  So, no.  That time is over.  I will crush you the next time you try a stunt like today.  Remember that.  Remember me.”  Miranda slid off the bed and walked down the hall.  I heard the door open but not close.  She left it to close on its own.  
  
The devil slayed her demon.  
****_  
FIN_

****

****

**_._ **


End file.
